


Private Little Paradise

by midnightfreeway



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic, Flowers, Gardens & Gardening, Hands, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 09:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22847692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightfreeway/pseuds/midnightfreeway
Summary: Aziraphale thinks about this sometimes, full circles and parallels and connections, ineffable metaphors.(It’s difficult not to, with a view like this.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	Private Little Paradise

Aziraphale does it a lot these days -- looking, watching, observing. The view from the kitchen window is like a painting: a sea of irises and peonies and lavenders, petals open towards the sun. There’s the occasional glimpse of dark hair, a flash of pale skin, a flicker of a movement in the corner of his eye. Crowley looks out of place here, surrounded by so much colour, but it’s easy to see he’s in his element now, thriving in a way he hasn’t before. 

There is something therapeutic about watching Crowley in his garden. He works in methodical silence, moving from patch to patch, watering plants and pulling out weeds. Sometimes he talks, towering over drooping flowers, arms folded over his chest. He spends hours trimming branches, threatening wilted plants with garden scissors. The backyard is so beautiful he could win awards for it, but Crowley has no interest in inviting people into the garden, let alone taking part in competitions. Aziraphale likes it better this way, too. It’s their private little paradise, tucked away from everyone and everything.

He spends his mornings like this: sitting at the kitchen table, hands cupped around a half-empty mug of cocoa, staring out the window. The cottage smells of freshly baked bread, and there is a pile of plates on the counter, waiting to be washed.

It started with a garden, the whole world. Maybe it ends with one, too, at some point in time. Aziraphale thinks about this sometimes, full circles and parallels and connections, ineffable metaphors. (It’s difficult not to, with a view like this.) The End is inevitable, but this is not it -- it can’t be, not so soon after everything that happened. In Aziraphale’s world, there are no endings, only new beginnings.

\-- 

There’s a farm nearby that sells milk and eggs and a variety of vegetables. Aziraphale pops in once or twice a week, making polite conversation with the farmer and his wife as he does his shopping. He takes the scenic route back home, walking along fields and meadows, seeking the shade of the trees lining the footpath. It has been an unusually warm August, and Aziraphale is often out of breath by the time he reaches the cottage, sweat trickling down his back and the weight of the bags pulling on his arms. Still, he enjoys the routine of it, and the sight of Crowley in his garden is always a welcome one, even if he’s too busy to notice Aziraphale coming back home. 

Today, Aziraphale lets himself in through the front door and drops the bags on the floor. The cottage is completely silent; the late afternoon sun paints pictures of light on the walls. Aziraphale puts his shoes on the rack, next to a stack of empty flower pots, and releases a breath. Home sweet home indeed. 

There’s the sound of the back door opening, and Crowley walks in -- and oh, he is, as always, easy on the eyes, dark hair falling across his forehead and sweat beading at his temples. Crowley doesn’t really tan, doesn’t even burn, but now, at the end of the summer, Aziraphale is starting to see a hint of colour on his cheeks, his forearms. Aziraphale’s heart leaps at the sight. His love, sun-kissed and soft around the edges! And the world almost ended, almost robbed him of this particular blessing. Aziraphale was ready to fight then, and he’s ready to fight now, if it means he gets to keep this Crowley and the life they have carved out for themselves here, in the South Downs.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says. “These pots. Can you move them out of the way? The house is cramped enough as it is.” 

“Can’t you do it yourself?” Crowley asks, but he comes over anyway, picking up the pots. They move effortlessly around each other in the tight space, Crowley opening cabinet doors with his elbow and placing the pots on an empty shelf, Aziraphale stepping back to make room for him. It’s a dance they learned long ago, in the back room of the bookshop and the crowded streets of London, and it’s useful here, too, some of the rooms just a little too small for two grown men, the hallway a bit too narrow. 

Crowley turns around, and Aziraphale realizes he must have miracled his hands clean, because they are spotless, no dirt under the fingernails. On impulse, he takes Crowley’s hand and studies the smooth skin, the network of grey-blue veins, the long fingers. Affection swells in his chest, blooming like a flower. Crowley and his hands, creating new life. Powerful, capable, skilled hands, responsible for so much beauty and delicacy. His gardening methods are sometimes unorthodox, sometimes downright bizarre, but it’s difficult not to fall in love with him when he cares so much, working in the sun for hours on end. 

Another surge of emotion, another impulse. Aziraphale lifts Crowley’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles, the back of his hand. Crowley watches this, mouth parted, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow movements. He leans even closer, bracing his free hand on the wall beside Aziraphale’s head. He smells of sweat and grass and fresh air, and Aziraphale inhales and exhales, his eyes fluttering shut.

One day, this will be a memory, too, precious and cherished. Aziraphale looks up, ready to lower their hands, but Crowley moves first, touching his cheek softly, almost reverently. He slides his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair, brushing curls from his forehead. Aziraphale’s heart is impossibly full.

“I was thinking of making dinner,” Crowley says, withdrawing his hand. “Shepherd’s pie.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale says. ”I bought potatoes. Beautiful golden ones.”

He takes the bags into the kitchen, empties the contents on the table: onions, eggs, lettuce. Crowley shuffles around behind him, reaching into cabinets and pulling out chopping boards and saucepans. Outside, the garden glows in vibrant shades of crimson and blue and green, almost too bright to be looked at. A gentle breeze drifts in through the open window, carrying the scent of flowers in full bloom, the salt of the sea. 

Aziraphale makes himself a cup of tea and takes a seat at the kitchen table. Crowley has finished peeling the potatoes and is cutting them into chunks. (Expert hands at work again, creating a different kind of magic.) There is a bottle of red wine on the counter, ready to be opened.

“I’m trying out something new today,” Crowley says. “Watch this, angel.”

Aziraphale sits back and does.


End file.
